The Forging Page 4

  “Mr. Embers, in your earlier testimony, you stated you talked with Detective Ralph Daves on the night of the robbery. Is this correct?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Ms. Refrain is showing a slight smile. It is the kind of smile which scares me a little bit. “And you have this perfect memory of yours?”

  “Yes, I do. What’s your point?”

  “May I approach the witness, your Honor?”

  “Yes.”

  Ms. Refrain picked up a sheet of paper off the table. She walked toward me and handed it to me. “Mr. Embers, would you please read this and tell the court what it is.”

  I glanced over it quickly. “It’s a death certificate.”

  "Whose death certificate is it, Mr. Embers?” She wasn’t even trying to conceal her smile.

  I read the name. "Ralph Daves." He was an acquaintance, a fine Cop and a decent man too. I am sorry to learn he had passed. I had met him back in 1978 when the PSA jetliner and small aircraft collided over North Park. When I heard the crash, I rushed to help if I could. Freaking vultures had beaten me there and were robbing the dead. One man was running around with bolt cutters cutting off fingers to steal the victims’ rings. Ralph Daves arrived after I did. He went about arresting the creeps I pointed out. If I had been the one carrying the gun that day, I am not sure I would not have shot them where they stood. Robbing the dead is low even for a low-life.

  I will have to say a few words over his resting place. He was a decent man. It's a worthy epitaph for any man.

  “What is the date of death, sir?”

  I read the date out loud, and as the words sounded from my lips, my heart sank. The date read two weeks before the robbery. “But it can’t be; I talked to Ralph.”

  “Well, Mr. Embers either you remember the date wrong, or you talked to a ghost.” She received a few laughs on her own. “And if you remember the date wrong, could you not have mistaken the defendant, Mark Galos, for the man who robbed the store the night in question?” She paused to let it sink into the jury’s collective mind. As I was about to come back with a brilliant remark, she burst out with, “I don’t believe your memory is quite as remarkable as you think it is.”

  “No. My memory is perfect. Mark Galos robbed the store. I talked to Detective Ralph Daves that night. This death certificate is wrong, not me.” The world is crashing down on me. I almost don’t believe myself. It seemed like I could hear the jurors’ doubts in my mind. My head began to pound with a headache, a migraine, and it feels like one that will torment me for days.

  Ms. Refrain took back the death certificate and handed it to the judge. He gave it a quick look then handed it to the bailiff. "One last question, Mr. Embers. And I promise it is the last question. Out of curiosity, what did the sign the robber taped to your chest say?” A big damn smile is on her face now. She knew what was written on the sign. She is pouring salt on the wound.

  “Coward.” It was Mark Galos’ turn to smile. I am broken, but I tried not to let it show.

  Ms. Refrain turned around, and as she walked back to her seat, she pronounced, “I have no more questions for this witness, your Honor.”

  The judge ordered, “The witness is excused.”

  I left the courtroom without another word. I am a beaten man, but I walked out tall and confident in hopes it would help convince the jury I spoke the truth. My head pounded in time with each step to my car. This mental monster is building up to be a Hell of a migraine. I’m not sure my little tricks for getting rid of it will work on this one.

  I left the courthouse for my car. The headache wasn’t lessening one bit. It would not be safe to drive home with the distraction of a migraine, so I had to take drastic measures. I sat in my car and took a moment to focus my thoughts. In my mind, I gave my headache a form. I saw a giant swinging a big club and pounding the ground in rhythm with the pounding in my skull. He stood maybe three times my height, dressed in leather armor reminiscent of something a Roman soldier might wear. I created a vision of myself to fight this monster. I have dressed in armor also. I am wearing a chainmail Hauberk and coif. I am armed with a Katana. It is strange I would wield a Katana wearing chainmail. Oh well, we fought each other, giant headache versus a giant pain in the …, on the terrain in my mind.

  I sliced at his legs and parried his club. With every stroke of my shining blade, I drove him toward the trap I had laid for him. Slowly, I pushed him back until at last, I backed him into the vault of synapses I had created. I flung the door closed on this giant of a headache. I spun the combination of the safe. I heard the giant pounding against the walls and door of the trap. With each beat of my heart, his pounding lessened until finally, there was silence in my mind. It should do for a little while. I had learned the trick when I was young. The only problem with getting rid of headaches this way is they always come back stronger. I eventually must let the migraine run its course. The last time I forestalled a headache like this one more than twice, I was bedridden for three days. All light and any sound which reached me are like driving nails into my eyes and ears. Only my begging kept Char from calling for an ambulance. I can’t imagine what would happen if I tried to use the trick four times.

  Well, with the headache under wraps, it is time to be homeward bound. The music started up in my mind. “I’m sitting in a railway station got a ticket for my destination…” Simon and Garfunkel, you have to love them.

  Chapter Two

  A perfectly agreeable day here in America’s Finest City shot to Hell. I looked at my cell phone for the time; then, texted my wife to let her know I am on my way home. If I hurry, I can still make it for dinner with my family. Unless it’s a special occasion, my wife, Charlene, serves dinner promptly at five-thirty PM. Well, with my schedule of working graveyards, it is more like my breakfast, not dinner. That which we call a meal by any other name still tastes yummy. I hope it’s meatloaf tonight. I can use the comfort of some comfort food like meatloaf tonight. Char makes it with crumbled bacon in the mix. You can’t go wrong with bacon. Pork fat rules baby. Meat and potatoes. Those are the meals I like best. I know my diet lives somewhere in the sixties, but hey, it’s what I grew up eating.

  As I made my way to hearth and home, wife and child, I tried to clear my mind of the events of that night and this day. So far, the void of no thoughts eluded me. I can’t let it show. My family deserves better than to share my burdens. I walked up to the door, took a breath, and put on my game face. I opened my front door. It’s showtime.

  I entered the house to a chorus of, “Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home,” from Moiraine. My daughter, God love her, she makes my life worth living. She makes me want to be a better man than I am. Yes, Charlene saved my life, and Moiraine makes my life worth living. Mo stands three feet tall with brown hair cut in a bob with bangs. Her eyes are the color of hazel, which changes shade depending on what she is wearing. She has these cheeks which puff out ever so slightly. Her smile fills the room, and she always smiles. Her personality matches her smile. She is a friend to all. She wants everybody to be friends and everybody to be happy. She is also a very outgoing child. Even when we are doing something mundane like shopping for groceries, she will introduce herself to fellow shoppers, “Hello. My name is Moiraine. You can call me Mo. Do you want to be friends?” I am sure someday she will make a fine cruise director. It’s very sweet. She has made numerous people smile while doing an otherwise joyless task. Her friendliness also scares me to death. She has not learned everyone can’t be your friend. I hope she remains ignorant of this fact a little while longer. When she does learn the lesson, I pray it is a gentle lesson. I also pray I will be there to comfort her sorrow.

  We named Moiraine after a strong female character from a series of novels by Robert Jordan. Both my wife and I were reading the Wheel of Time series when she was preggers with Moiraine. Somehow the name felt right. We never even considered a boy’s name. Many parents want to know the gender of their children before they are born, but we didn’t. I wanted it to be
a surprise. I am a little old fashioned. No, wait. Retro, yes, make it I am retro. It sounds cool, and I tend to be lacking in cool.

  Mo ran through the house to greet me at the door. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” poured out as she threw her arms around my legs and squeezed, “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too. How was kindergarten today?” I asked, already knowing her answer.

  “Good.” We answered in unison. She giggled as she looked up at me. She is so loving and trusting. I am her, Daddy. I can’t; I won’t screw this up. The relationship with my father was a screwed-up mess. I learned early on not to trust his promises. If he told me he would pick me up on the weekend, and we would spend some quality time together, more than half of the time he didn’t show. When he did show up, we never did anything fun. Most times, we would go back to his apartment and watch television. I won’t even call him my father. He was more like a sperm donor with visitation rights. The only lesson he ever taught me is how not to be a dad. They say a man has two opportunities to have a father-child relationship in his life, one as the child and one as the father. I was cheated out of the first one. I’ll be damned if I’ll miss out or screw up on the second. I know someday she will see one of my many flaws, or I will disappoint her, or the words I say won’t take away the pain, but not this day. Today I am still Daddy: teller of bedtime stories, slayer of closet monsters, and her hero.

  “Luuuuceee, I’m home,” I yelled in my best Cuban accent.

  “You’re more like Fred than Ricky,” Charlene proclaimed in a deadpan voice. “Dinner is almost ready.” Charlene is my beautiful wife. She has dishwater blond hair which falls in ringlets down to her shoulders. Her eyes are creamy jade green. She stands at five feet five inches tall and has a classic hourglass figure. And believe me when I say none of the sand has run out. I have always preferred women with some curves. Oh, a couple of times I have raced on a straight track with only a couple of bumps on the road, but when you take the curvy road there is always something new around the bend, and the view is spectacular. I could wax poetic about every inch of her figure, but I don’t kiss and tell.

  When she is working in the house, she moves with purpose and speed. She is the kind of person who has a place for everything and everything in its place. In other words, she is a bit of a pain in the butt. I tend to be messy. I will leave the dishes until tomorrow or wait to do laundry until the only clean clothes I have are the ones I just put on. Hey, the world could end and who wants to spend their last hours doing housework?

  “What’s on the menu?”

  “Broiled halibut with orange butter.”

  Oh my, another gourmet meal from the kitchen of Ellie Mae Clampett. Hell, I don’t even care tonight’s main course is halibut. You see, the only fish I care to eat is deep-fried, covered in tartar sauce, and has the last name of “sticks.”

  “Go ahead and sit down. Moiraine, did you finish setting the table?” Char asked from the kitchen.

  “Yes, Mom.” She answered, all the while hugging my legs. She looked up at me with a proud expression, “I helped cook dinner. Mommy let me stir the butter and put the mushrooms in the salad.”

  I steered Mo to the dining room table. Before I sat down, I went over to Blossom’s bed to give her a pet. Blossom is our dog; well, my wife’s dog. She has had her for sixteen years. Blossom is your basic mutt. As best as we can tell, she is a mix of cocker spaniel and golden retriever. She is a smallish dog with a golden-brown coat which is short on her upper half and hangs long and low on her lower half. The poor thing hardly makes a sound or moves from her bed anymore. She lays there, wagging her tail as I petted her, “What kind of day did Blossom have today?” I asked over my shoulder as I gave the old girl some attention.

  “She had a pain-free day, I would say. She stayed in her bed except to eat and do her business,” Char responded as she put dinner on the table.

  Blossom gave my hand a couple of licks. “Hey, old girl, how are you doing?” She looked up at me with her big brown eyes. I think she is trying to tell me something. Those eyes conveyed many thoughts, some of which saddens me to ponder. Thoughts like it’s ok to let me go. I have had a love-filled life. “I know girl. I know,” I scratched her behind the ears then left for the dining room table. I sat down and looked across the table at my wife, “It’s not fair to her. She deserves better.”

  “I know I just can’t think about it right now, okay?”

  “What’s not fair, Daddy?” Mo asked as I started my dinner.

  “It is grown-up talk, Honey. Eat your dinner.” Normally I’m of the belief if a child is old enough to ask a question, they are old enough to hear a truthful answer. However, when the answer would hurt Moiraine, I’m a bit of a coward. We all dug into the grub. This dinnertime was mostly quiet except for the yummy sounds. Mine almost sounded genuine.

  When we finished with dinner, Mo cleared off the table. She always likes helping, and it has been less traumatic for us since we bought plastic plates and glasses.

  Charlene and I lingered at the table while Mo made her trips back and forth to the kitchen. “How did it go?” Charlene asked with concern in her voice. She reached over the table to take my hand. We sat there holding hands and were just being together for a moment.

  “It didn’t go well. The big boss did the cross-examination. I am pretty sure I blew it.” Pretty sure, hell if I had been on the jury, I wouldn’t have believed me. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s do the dishes,” I started to stand, but Char stayed seated, holding my hand. I sat back down and looked in her eyes. She knows it is getting to me. In her loving way, she is telling me she is here for me. I can’t tell you the strength this simple compassion gives me.

  Let me tell you a little secret we men have: we are weak. Oh, we can pump iron, lift that bale, tote that barge all week long and twice on Sundays, but in our hearts we are weak. Some men are driven, focused, and single-minded, but it is not the same as strong. Strength is going to a job day after day you hate to provide for your family. Strength is standing up to a greater force than yourself because it’s the right thing to do. Strength is watching your child fall and not running to her aid over every little hurt. All these strengths and more I have not mentioned are given to a man when he is loved. If a man’s strength can be measured by how much he is loved, then I believe I am the strongest man in the world.

  After another moment of being together there at our dining room table, we stood and went into the kitchen. Mo had finished clearing the table and ran off to her room for some reason or another. As I started into the dishes, Charlene was putting the leftovers away. Charlene became quiet, and I began to feel a vibe happening, “What? Aren’t you going to help?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “Nope, I’m enjoying the show.”

  “Enjoying what show, pray tell?”

  “Watching your cute little butt wiggle.” A silly little laugh came to my ears as her hands reached around my waist. I could feel her pressing up against my back. She leaned into me hard as she rested her head between my shoulder blades.

  “Why, Miss Charlene, I do believe you are getting frisky,” I voiced with a southern accent and a slight hint of naughty in my voice. An idea hit me. Smack. It didn’t hit me as much as came to attention.

  “Getting frisky? I’ve been frisky all day,” she answered with an animalistic undertone.

  “Do you think we can get away with a nap while Mo watches some TV?” Nap you see is the parents’ universal code word for mattress Olympics, flying on the starship intercourse, or hot monkey love. Take your pick. No matter what you call it, it’s all pure old plain wholesome fun.

  “You know I don’t like her watching TV when we’re not in the room,” Char asserted half-heartedly.

  “Two minutes isn’t going to hurt her,” I teased.

  “No wham and bam for this girl, Mister!”

  As far as I am concerned, the dishes are done. “I’ll put the Wiggles on. She’ll be singing and dancing her heart out while we trip our own
light fantastic.” This is going to be what the doctor ordered to turn this day around. “Mo, I’m putting the Wiggles on,” I yelled to the other room.

  “Hooray!” came from the direction of Moiraine’s room as well as the sound of her little feet scampering towards the living room.

  I rejoiced in the warmth of my wife’s embrace a moment longer and then went to put the DVD on.

  The Wiggles are four men wearing hand-me-down Star Trek costumes dancing and singing to children’s music. They don’t sing well, the production value of their shows and movies are amateurish, and Moiraine loves them. She will dance and sing in front of the television for hours if we would let her. I have learned some kids love to hear the same bedtime story over and over. Not my daughter, no. Her favorite thing to repeat, ad nauseam, is the Wiggles. Sometimes I think if I hear about the “Five Little Ducks” again, I will explode.

  Okay, Mo is distracted, for the time being, my wife is already waiting for me in our bedroom, the only thing left to do is to play some mood music on my trusty internal iPod. “Maestro if you are ready, a little Barry if you will?”

  “The Duff Man is always ready. Oh yeah! K R A P is on the air with a request coming through on the Love Line.”

  The music started to play in my mind. “Looks like we made it…”

  “Not Barry Manilow, you idiot, play Barry White.” I thought to myself.

  “Duff Man is sorry. All you asked for was Barry.” Everyone has to be a comedian, even my own mental minion.

  Now let us proceed to the exciting part of this evening’s entertainment. I entered our bedroom, ready to start. I was ready to get started ten minutes ago. Hell, I might have finished nine minutes ago without Charlene. I closed the door behind me and locked it. No child interruptus tonight. Charlene is already undressed and only half under the sheet. The sheet was draped to cover all the strategic locations, although an ample portion of her cleavage is exposed along with most of one leg. She has a “we are going to be naughty” smile on her face. I sat down on the bed next to her and leaned in to kiss her.